


Red Right Hand

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Betrayal, Enemies With Benefits, Evil Queens, Foe Yay, Gallows Humor, Helping an enemy, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Politics, Trick or Treat: Trick, heroic attempts at plot, living for the cause killing for the cause (almost) dying for the cause
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:12:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16471958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: Her Grace does everything within her power to rebuilt Touissant's image after the vampire invasion. "Everything" includes "organising a tournament, inviting all important figures of the North (or: mortal enemies) to it and expecting them to be civil to each other".





	Red Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



 

Iorveth could swear Anarietta organised a fest at least once a month—but this one, as Vergen’s Council had assured him, was special, and the presence of an important military figure in their delegation was an absolute necessity. And everybody knew that Scoia’tael lived, breathed and swore by “esse creasa”, that is, “it’s necessary”.

“Esse creasa” brought Iorveth this time not to the forest, but first to Toussaint, then to the tournament, and finally to the royal box, near Anarietta, Enid, and Roche.

‘We’re all the most faithful servants of the Empire,’ stated Her Highness, smiling slightly. ‘Forever grateful to Emhyr for supporting us in our time of need. It’s only fitting we should all share the same... view. To the playing field.’

“The playing field” proved to be a very broad concept—including not only the tournament field, but also the entire North; oh, pardon, newly-joined Nilfgaardian regions—but that didn’t surprise Iorveth at all. Roche seemed irritated by all the political talking they did, though, which gave the elf a warm feeling of satisfaction. Especially Roche’s wincing when they mentioned the necessity of suppressing the independence movement in Redania. Maybe even with, oh, pardon my bluntness, force. And maybe it’s time to consider how many troops Temeria could dispatch? Hypothetically, of course, as we all hope for peace—and then there was only the rustle of Enid’s fan and her enigmatic smile, signalling the end of this particular vein of conversation.

Iorveth never thought he would enjoy politics so much. But that evening, he was the one wincing, having to endure the procedure of rewarding the winners. Anarietta and Enid were giving out flowers, ribbons, jewellery and smiles; Iorveth and Roche could only announce “good job” over and over again. Terribly boring task—but at least Roche was obviously suffering, too. 

In the deepest corner of his soul, Iorveth might admit he was observing the man a little too closely. He blamed it on the boredom, and the fact that he hated Enid even more. Besides, Roche was his retired arch-enemy and he hadn’t fucked—that is, seen him in a year or so, and so why wouldn’t he want to watch him—

But what this particular tournament champion, a young man in Redanian colours, definitely wasn’t supposed to do was move his hand sneakily to his hip, eyes shining with the determination of a martyr. Iorveth had seen faces like this thousands of times among his commandos, and so he guessed the man’s intention—or perhaps had a fit of prophesying, like a proper Aen Seidhe should—and threw himself at Roche, yelling “ _Bloede duvelsheisse_!”

This scream saved them, probably. It distracted the Redanian, made him look at the source of sound for a brief moment, before throwing the dagger at Roche—and the briefest of moments was enough for a warrior with elven reflexes to push Roche out of the way. The guards did the rest of the job, securing Roche and throwing the Redanian on the ground and proceeding to beat him. Not very professionally, in Iorveth’s opinion. 

‘Not within the sight of Her Enlightened Ladyship and the ladies!’ yelled their commander, and the soldiers, somewhat ashamed, muttered apologies and pulled the would-be assassin away.

Iorveth sighed with relief. “Bloede duvelsheisse” it really would be, to have your ex-arch-nemesis killed before your own eyes during the decoration ceremony. By some young Dh’oine—a boy, really—to boot. It would have proven how incompetent the Scoia’tael had been in their pursuit of Roche. Yaevinn would remind Iorveth about it on their every meeting, until the end of their lives, however long might they be.

Not to mention the absolute destruction of Anarietta’s plan for restoring Toussaint’s image. And Iorveth was a general, now. General in delegation, representing all Vergen. He was supposed to act chivalrously, and what kind of knight would allow the destruction of a lady’s plan?

Speaking of chivalrous behaviour... ‘Pardon my dwarfish, Your Grace.’ He bowed a little before Anarietta; Enid, he couldn’t care less for, and she knew it. Bystanders would think he meant them both, either way. ‘Ladies.’ He bowed again, this time in the direction of the ladies-in-waiting.

Vergen’s council should be proud of him. It was surely worth at least a week of being allowed to interrogate and discipline the Dh'oine prisoners.

‘Your dwarfish was excellent,‘ commented Enid sweetly. ‘It’s your Hen Linge I’d be concerned about.’

He couldn’t really be angry. Roche must be furious, and that thought made everything so wonderfully light and joyful; even the colours seemed to be brighter, more intense. 

‘Iorveth!’ yelled Roche, finally freeing himself from the guards who were belatedly ensuring his safety. ‘What were you thinking, you son of a—fuck.‘ His face grew pale. ‘You need a doctor, now.’

Really? Nothing hurt, so it was probably...

‘Just a scratch.’ Iorveth rolled his eyes at these Dh’oine hysterics. And shrugged. And it apparently wasn’t just a scratch, for his head spun and he fell into darkness.

 

 

When he woke up, the first thing he noticed—sensed—was the absence of his eye-patch. That had been a strange decision of his mind, to focus on that detail, because a moment later he noticed that he was also half-naked, his left shoulder bandaged, and that somebody’s hands were slowly caressing the scars on his torso and abdomen. 

Dry, warm skin and then tougher, yet smoother, material. Iorveth sighed mentally.

‘You could at least take the gloves off, Dh’oine.’

‘Velerad always tells me so. They’re supposedly unfitting for my current position. But I like them. Want some wine?’

Iorveth nodded. He drank in silence, closing his eyes. Roche’s hands didn’t leave his body, wandering along the path of tattoos and scars.

Roche always liked looking at them, touching them, possessing them. Iorveth usually managed to forbid him from doing so one way or another. And he never let Roche see his damaged eye socket. To know that now he had done so, and when Iorveth was unconscious—helpless—on top of this, felt both terribly violating and strangely freeing. Almost like a death. Nothing left to protect and fight for any more.

Just like during his time in prison, except he couldn’t be harmed now. The helplessness and that strange, twistingly sweet—relaxing—dependency, but without real consequences. Iorveth felt all his muscles tensing under Roche’s touch and he wasn’t sure if it was from fear, shame or arousal.

If he had an inclination to poetry, like Yaevinn, for example, he might have—well, not said, but thought, “you’re my death; that’s why I let you live, why I saved you, why I need you,” or something along those lines. But he was not, thank  _caerme_ for that, and so he threw the cup at Roche and tried to push his fingers away, hissing:

‘I hate that.’

‘I know.’ The man managed to catch the cup. A pity. And he didn’t stop what he was doing with his fingers.

‘I just saved your life.’

Roche clenched his teeth. ‘ _I know._ ’ He moved his free hand to Iorveth’s face, and Iorveth immediately tried to jerk back. His shoulder didn’t hurt much, and it gave him pause. He had lost consciousness. He was terribly exhausted, even now. His wound ought to have been serious.

‘I saved your life and was wounded in the process. How badly?’

‘Bad enough. The boy wasn’t as foolish as he seemed. The dagger was very sharp, enhanced with magic and laced with a poison. Triple insurance. Expensive toy.’ Roche seemed thoughtful. Iorveth could risk a guess why; it indicated that the boy had had accomplices. ‘He managed to cut your muscles with it, damaging the artery under your armpit. You had lost quite a lot of blood before we noticed what happened. You had been standing at an unfortunate angle.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ snarled Iorveth. ‘Why am I alive and well, then? Dh’oine medicine isn’t exactly famous for its miracles—’

‘ _Her Highness_  patched you up. Magically. It was quite a show, let me tell you. All the flowers that had been intended as prizes withered and died in a blink of an eye. But you’re basically healed, though it drained much of your body’s energy. There’s a scab, but that’s all. She said there won’t even be a scar. Such a shame. I would love another one—and it would practically be dedicated to me...’ He moved his face just above Iorveth’s abdomen; his breath tingled on Iorveth’s skin and all of Iorveth’s muscles tightened instinctively, flattening his stomach.

He tried to ignore it. ‘I hate her.’

‘She probably saved your life.’

‘ _I know_.’

Roche lifted his head, looked him straight in the eye, and smiled triumphantly. Great. Iorveth had let himself be led right into a trap.

‘Bloede Dh’oine.’

‘Tssk. I’m concerned about your  _Hen Linge_.’ Roche mocked Enid’s accent perfectly. ‘Frankly, she seems to be concerned about you. About Squirrels in general. She just shows it in a typical elfish way.’

‘She cares about the Scoia’tael who weren’t executed in the aftermath of  _her_  betrayal.’

‘Well, she was right then, wasn’t she? Politically, strategically, military...’ Roche shrugged slightly and put his open palm on Iorveth’s tattoo, which was half-covered by bandages. He nibbled lightly at the painted leaves, like he would try to pluck them. ‘Considering your tastes in bed, I’d not expect you to hold a grudge.’

‘It’s not the same. You never betrayed us. You never could.’ Iorveth kicked off the quilt and tried to put a leg around Roche’s waist, pulling him closer in the process. ‘You never pretend to be our—my—ally. A friend. Anything.’

‘Hah. That’s just because I never interrogated you—and what about now?’ Roche ground his hips against Iorveth’s arse.

‘We’re not friends, Roche. We were just fucking.’ Iorveth emphasised the words with a jerk of his own hips. ‘You of all creatures should see the difference. And you were the one who wanted to end this, the last time.’

He regretted this words almost immediately after they’d left his mouth. Roche stopped in the middle of pulling down his trousers.

‘I thought you wanted it, now. And you saved my life, so...’ He shrugged.

‘You already repaid me by having your way with my body when I was unconscious,’ snarled Iorveth.

He knew he would be all messy and aching if it was true. He knew he was striking blindingly and stupidly. Maybe he was afraid. Or maybe he was furious. If he were a Dh’oine, he might even be able to name his emotions; Dh’oine always expressed them so loudly, so clearly, so unashamedly.

Roche gritted his teeth and moved away from him. ‘Raping others doesn’t pleasure me.’

From his point of view, touching Iorveth’s scars was probably more akin to care, admiration and caress than molestation. Considering what both of them had done in their past, Iorveth could hardly disagree.  _Ard caerme_ , how he hated this man. Why couldn’t he have killed him, plain and simple, or even let someone else do the job?

‘But you let your Blue Stripes run loose and do whatever they wanted with the Scoia’tael, Mahakam civilians, and anyone else who had the misfortune of coming into your jurisdiction. Rapes including. It’s just that you don’t care about sex that much. It has nothing to do with ethics.’

‘I’ve never claimed it has. And it’s not like Squirrels are saints, either. Do I need to remind you what your commandos did to those you deemed traitors? Wait, don’t answer. You’ll give me some ideological bullshit I already know.’

Iorveth pursed his lips. ‘I saved your life,’ he said finally, ‘and you stole my eye-patch and molested me in return. Dh’oine. I’m not even surprised..’

Roche blinked. ‘All this is about the eye-patch? It wasn’t me. It fell off during the whole magical healing thing, and nobody thought about putting it on again. It should be lying here somewhere, with all your clothes.’ He relaxed; his hands came back to Iorveth’s body, this time caressing his thighs. There were old wounds there, too, souvenirs from his imprisonment, but Iorveth was used to being touched there in bed, and he found it not only undisturbing, but almost soothing. ‘Although I won’t claim I’m unhappy because of it. Your scars are...’ he trailed off for a moment, presumably searching for a word. Or just too overwhelmed by desire, thought Iorveth grimly. ‘...fascinating.’

‘Because they remind you of my weakness? Or because they’re a living monument of the victory of your kind?’

‘Bullshit. You elves overthink everything.’ Roche laid himself along the side of Iorveth’s body, his hands constantly moving; Iorveth recognised the general shape of gestures—they were letters, but he couldn’t “read” the words, not clearly. “Mine” perhaps? Their names? But it would be strangely sentimental. ‘I mean, you might be right, when one analyses things deeply. But I just thought they’re... not so bad looking.’ He seemed to be almost choking on his words. ‘You’re an elf. Ipso facto, you’re one hell of a pretty bastard. Why wouldn’t your scars be easy on eyes, too?’ 

Because they were not the scars of a warrior, not all of them. Some were given to Iorveth, deliberately, as signs of shame and defeat, and Roche knew this—could tell them apart. But the elf didn’t intend to mention it. He had already told too much to this bloede interrogator.

‘I thought so many times about what I would do when I finally saw this.’ Roche’s fingers travelled to Iorveth’s face, almost touching his eye-socket, but stopped when Iorveth winced. ‘Most of it was terribly stupid, like all fantasies are.’

‘ _Dh’oine_  fantasies.’

‘Yeah. Sure. I won’t dare ask for yours, I don’t like listening about torturing humans. Mine were silly and grotesque. Touching, kissing, jerking off on them, drinking from them, fucking, licking, pouring fucking champagne to dip fruit in. You know the drill. And  _the charm_ , I see.’

 _Cuach._ But yes, Iorveth felt the familiar tingling in his groin. A wave of shame hit him. To be aroused by Dh’oine, by Roche, was one thing. To be aroused by silly obscenities, obscenities objectifying his own kind, was another. Iorveth hoped Enid’s magic could be blamed for this, but before he could say as much, Roche pulled him into a kiss.

Iorveth tried to push him away, but the man grabbed his hands and held them above his head. Iorveth’s wounded shoulder hurt, strained; he hissed, and Roche immediately took the opportunity to push his tongue between his lips, his breath tasting of sweet Toussaint wine. He explored them thoroughly—though hardly kindly—the right, ruined side especially, obviously taking pleasure in touching the inner part of the scar, the smashed bone structure, the void in place of the teeth.

Iorveth stopped protesting, partly because of the fear that had been ingrained by his time in Drakenborg, partly because of the arousal. Both sentiments rather shameful, come to think of it—and so think of it he did not, focusing on the sensations instead. Roche’s grip on his wrists was warm and strong. There was a one-day bristle on his face, tingling, irritating, grounding—strangely pleasuring. 

But when Roche left his mouth, with a bite to his lower lip as a farewell, and his kisses travelled along Iorveth’s jaw and right cheekbone higher—too high—fear and shame won over the pleasure. Iorveth cursed and tried to push Roche away by kicking and hitting him with his elbows.

Well, the first part was a success. His trilingual curses sounded impressive. Attempts at pushing Roche away worked... less splendidly. The man cursed, too, but easily avoided being hit, and sat on Iorveth’s legs, effectively pinning him to the mattress.

‘I only need to yell,’ said Iorveth. ‘Surely there are guards in the corridor.’

Roche laughed lightly, but leaned away. ‘That would be one hell of a diplomatic scandal, I admit. Somebody would lose his reputation as the pure, fanatically-devoted warrior—and it wouldn’t be me. Human commanders torturing Squirrels is the most common sight under the sun, after all.’

‘Torturing?’

‘Why would you be calling for guards if not to claim an assault? Unless you want their assistance in our, ha, personal matters.’ Despite all his talking, Roche didn’t touch Iorveth’s face again. He was caressing his bandages instead. ‘Fuck. I want—so much. It’s been a long time.’ He sounded like he was trying to justify something to himself. Iorveth would laugh—Roche’s lust didn’t need words, it was very much visible—but he was still too disturbed. ‘Let’s make a deal. You will let me touch you  _there,_  and then I’ll do whatever you want. Just this time. And only because you took a knife for me.’

‘It was a dagger. And not for you.’ Iorveth almost choked on his anger. But when Roche chuckled “Why, then?”, he couldn’t find an answer.

On the other hand, he could surely use this Dh’oine’s self-confidence to his advantage... And the shock passing through Roche’s features when Iorveth said “I agree” was definitely a nice sight.

The shock was gone almost instantly. Roche used the moment well. First his fingers, then his tongue came to Iorveth’s eye-socket, slow and thorough, but not gentle; curious and possessive, rather. He explored every part of the damaged side, every scar, every bit of the skin. It felt... strange, mostly. After all this time, every touch there seemed alien, annoying, outwardly terrifying on an emotional level. But in a purely physical sense, scarred skin couldn’t feel much. The little unmarred bits around the scars were oversensitive, though, almost ticklish. The contrast between these two sensations was both jarring and pleasurable. The wetness and post-drink sweetness of Roche’s tongue lingered on his skin. It didn’t have any right to feel like burning, but, well, it felt just like that. Burning. Marking.

Iorveth tried to stay calm, breathing deeply and evenly, but he was, in fact, mortified. And he knew, with shameful certainty, that Roche noticed it, and it pleased him.

And, what was even worse, all of this—his fear, the intimacy of the touch, the mess of his feelings, Roche’s uncompassionate pleasure—heightened Iorveth’s own excitement. His hips moved almost of their own accord, grinding against Roche’s crotch, and the man laughed, his warm breath bringing the smell of wine ( _disgusting_ ,  _disgusting, disgusting, not intimate at all_ ). He put his knee between Iorveth’s thighs, opening and lifting his legs, and started to rock his own hips against Iorveth’s arse.

There was thoughtful malice in this position; his knee pressed into Iorveth’s cock, making him uncomfortable and preventing him from taking any pleasure. Every move which would normally heighten his arousal now was only increasing his discomfort. Iorveth clenched his teeth and tried to stop himself from squirming. It didn’t work, and he could feel Roche’s amused laugh against his scarred skin.

Iorveth told himself it was for the best. It helped him rein in his senses and, hopefully, made Roche more careless. He was just a Dh’oine, after all. Iorveth was Aen Seidhe. He was above details such as his own throbbing erection.

...Or maybe not. The pressure on Iorveth’s cock was increasing, becoming more and more painful—and this made him even more excited. He decided to blame it on Enid’s magic, again, logic be damned. 

‘Enough,’ he barked, turning his head. Roche cursed in a couple of different dialects, but took his face away.

‘Sure.’ His hips were still swaying lightly between Iorveth’s legs, creating quite a nice tension. A pity it would go nowhere. ‘Everything for  _my saviour_. Blowjob, handjob? Good old  _cuach me aep_  arse?’

Somebody was definitely hoping he would get to mark Iorveth’s face with his inferior species’ seed. Ha, no  _bloede_  way. 

‘I want to participate in your interrogation of that foolish young man.’ Roche’s jaw dropped a little and Iorveth barely held back a triumphant smile. It was worth not getting the physical release. Aen Seidhe preferred intellectual entertainment, after all. ‘I’m certain you already ensured your right to play with him. Oh—‘ he added, watching Roche’s frustrated face and feeling wonderfully smug. ‘—our perfect hosts probably put the chamberpot here somewhere. You can... finish your business to it. I’ll gladly watch.’ 

For a moment it seemed Roche would take the proposition, but then he breathed deeply, clenched his fists, rose from the bed—without his usual grace, as Iorveth noticed gleefully—and went straight to the door. At the doorstep he turned his head, obviously furious.

‘What are you waiting for, cripple-of-a-bitch ? A special invitation? Get your arse out of the bed, we’re going.’

 

 

Sexual frustration apparently did wonders for Dh’oine effectiveness, mused Iorveth, observing the interrogation from a chair. Roche was beating the Redanian noble—Radoslav Kazur, according to the briefing Damien had given them—with a real passion.

‘A master at work,’ Iorveth whispered into Roche’s ear, when Vernon, tired, fetched himself water. ‘I like it. You torturing your own kind.’

Roche rolled his eyes and murmured something along the lines of ‘screw yourself, long-eared bastard’, but there was no real anger in his voice.

The prisoner—a boy, really, knighted just a few months earlier—heroically tried to remain silent. For first couple of minutes, that was. Roche was a very gifted man.

Unfortunately, the boy didn’t know much. Or rather: what he knew was a bunch of very carefully crafted lies and manipulations. Roche or one of his men apparently assassinated someone from the Kazur family. Radoslav found it a dishonour; one of Redanian nobles killed by a Temerian commoner! The horror! And so he was nurturing the anger in his heart, letting it grow, waiting for any chance to get his revenge and restore the honour of the house.

It made a superficial sense. Iorveth had to admit that he understood this type of thinking; it was similar to the ways of Aen Seidhe (he usually explained it to his Scoia’tael by saying the Dh’oine had appropriated the concept). But the thing was, it didn’t make any deeper sense in the context of the whole situation: somebody had given this young boy, too young to be a head of the family, the money and contacts he needed to get that magical dagger. Somebody had helped him get to the prestigious tournament. Last but not least, somebody had planted the idea of revenge -- this whole ridiculous plan – in his head.

Radoslav just hadn’t any idea who it had been. He didn’t even realise that someone had influenced him. And what he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell, although at this point of the interrogation he certainly wanted to. Whoever was behind all this, they had chosen their tool wisely.

At least, Iorveth had the pleasure of watching Roche’s work. He would prefer to play with the Dh’oine himself, but Roche, angry and frustrated, categorically refused him—“seeing is participating, elf”—and so, when the door suddenly opened, and Damien de la Tour announced that Radoslav’s father was here, talking about laws, rights and privileges, and maybe one of them would like to talk with him, Iorveth’s lips smiled almost of their own accord.

 

 

Vaclav Kazur was a man in his middle age, looking still quite young for a Dh’oine. “He’s dying his hair,” announced Anarietta, laughing slightly, before they all—she, Iorveth, Damien and Enid—came into the guest room. This interrogation had to take place in more comfortable surroundings; Vaclav, after all, wasn’t accused of anything.

Upon seeing Iorveth, the man pursed his lips. It was obviously meant as a sign of irritation, but the elf saw right through it, noticing the poorly hidden terror. Redanians still remembered tales about Isengrim.

Iorveth smiled. Vaclav shuddered. He wasn’t, after all, accused of anything—yet.

 

 

‘Your son is a very brave, honourable young man. One might even say—brave and honourable to a fault.’

Enid was sounding soothing. Anarietta made a sublty concerned face. They both looked distracting in their deep-cut necklines. Damien was leaning against the wall, looking like the personification of common sense and justice. Which meant that Iorveth was left with the role of a bad guard. Not that he minded.

For some time, he just smiled, letting the others talk, letting them create a comforable atmosphere. Then he attacked. 

‘For such a honourable man, he definitely chose a strange method. A duel, I’d understand... Everybody would. Roche, being a—‘ he threw a glance at Anarietta ‘—son of a common woman would probably laugh his arse off and refuse, but there would be no sad repercussions. Assassination, on the other hand, is a very different matter. Especially when it involves one of the Scoia’tael.’

Vaclav gulped. He tried to simultaneously look Iorveth’s in the eye, but avoid looking at the right side of his face. He failed.

‘Like I said, it was a matter of wrongly perceived honour. I’m ashamed. I’ll punish my son myself and send him to a temple. One with very strict rules, I assure you. If I can offer you any other satisfaction—’

‘I don’t care about Dh’oine temples or Dh’oine satisfaction.’ Iorveth shuddered with disgust he didn’t need to fake. Enid tsk-ed. ‘And you’re not in a position to punish anybody. Your son harmed me, the general of the Free Republic of Vergen, in Toussaint and in the box formally belonging to Dol Blathanna’s embassy.’

‘It’s true. ‘Enid’s face was full of concern. ‘And Dol Blathanna’s laws aren’t... kind to humans.’ No mention that she was the one who passed said laws in the first place.

‘Nor are Nilfgaardian laws kind to assassins,’ continued Iorveth. ‘I’ll see to the execution of your son myself. But don’t worry, I’ll give him no less attention than the Scoia’tael used to pay their enemies. Maybe even more than that. I miss having the smell of Dh’oine blood—chauvinistic ones—’ he added quickly, bowing his head to Anarietta. ‘—on my hands. Making one of your lot scream will be such a nice trip down a memory lane.’

‘Iorveth!” hissed Enid. Then she tossed her head and smiled almost apologetically. The image of a gentle, terrified soul. A very beautiful image, painted by the movements of her face like a drawing by the strokes of a brush. All lies, like the art had always been.

‘Right. I forgot my manners. I shall thank you for this opportunity. After all, if you hadn’t sired this young, foolish man, hadn’t poured money into his education, hadn’t infected him with the smug conviction of your superiority typical for your kind... If not for this all, I wouldn’t—‘

‘Oh gods, he’s still a child! And a noble! I demand—’

‘And I was younger than him when I went to the forest.’ Iorveth hated when someone interrupted him. ‘He is obviously old enough to try to kill a man, and he succeeded in wounding one of the Scoia’tael. You should be proud. Don’t forget to tell him so, if you come at his execution. But act with more dignity during it, please. We wouldn’t want you sullying your family’s honour, which might make somebody else in your house decide they need to act on its behalf—and you certainly don’t want my brothers-in-arms to think your family is a threat to our kind.’

‘My family and my house have nothing to do with this!’ Vaclav was positively white; he was obviously decent enough at deciphering allusions and threats. ‘I have nothing to do with it! We never talked about Roche, why would we? He killed poor Gustav, true, but that was on Foltest’s orders! Why should anybody with even one iota of honour bother himself with getting revenge on a tool, a sword—a dog—not the owner?’

‘Are you suggesting your son was used by somebody? Heavily influenced, perhaps?’ Anarietta almost sang this sentence.

Enid leaned over the table. Vaclav had to smell her perfume, look deep into her big, beautiful eyes. ‘We are all creatures of honour. We don’t punish those who are ill or misled. But your son insists—’

‘My son is a damn fool! I mean—I apologise, Your Highness—but “influenced” doesn’t even start to cover the vastness of his... his...’ He obviously struggled to find non-obscene words, finally ending with ‘...his mistake. That witch twisted him around her little finger! I told him to stay away from her and her clique, I swear, but you know how hard it is to reason with a boy this age? It’s—’

‘We understand. Syanna was just the same,’ said Anarietta. 

‘Tales of dysfunctional Dh’oine families don’t interest me,’ said Iorveth.

Damien frowned. ‘Don’t forget you’re talking with Her Enlightened Ladyship.’

‘A witch and her clique? Who do you mean, Vaclav?’ Enid asked.

The man hesitated, moving his glaze from one person to another, before fixing it on Enid.

‘Who do I mean? Why, there aren’t many witches in Redania left, are they? Philippa and her advisors, of course.’

 

 

When Iorveth and the rest of their little investigation team came back to the cell, Roche was enjoying the break. “The break” in Toussaint apparently meant quite a lot of wine.

‘Youth of today. Delicate flowers.’ Roche raised his cup to them. ‘Our guest decided to faint in the middle of the conversation.’

‘Terribly impolite.’ Anarietta sat on the table, grabbed his cup, and drank from it herself. Damien looked like he was about to faint, too. ‘First trying to kill you, and then failing to keep you entertained. Such a disgrace. No wonder his father is so ashamed.‘ 

‘Speaking of his father, while you were doing what your kind does best,  _we_ managed to get a piece of useful information. His father was—‘

‘Wait a little, Squirrel.’ The words lingered on Roche’s lips a little longer than they should; he had drunk a little too much. An easy mistake, in Toussaint. ‘Have you just admitted that  _my kind_  do something at least well? I think we should get it written down and signed by all the witnesses.’

The only thing stopping Iorveth from rolling his eye was the deep conviction that an Aen Seidhe should be above such a childish ways of expressing emotions. Apparently he had been mistaken, though, because Enid, a much older and nobler Seidhe—treacherous though she may have been—reacted to Roche’s words with a burst of quiet, melodic laughter.

It only irritated Iorveth more. ‘I admit your kind is very gifted at some... physical tasks. Like administering a beating. And—‘  _sex_  ‘— other things. ’

Roche’s laughter, unlike Enid’s, was neither quiet nor melodic. And it ended abruptly, when he heard the news they brought.

‘Philippa. I’m not surprised. She’s always plotting something. A few others, surely. But Janus de Frombosh and Kordian Passec? I smell a lie. They aren’t politicians, just soldiers. Not idealists, even. The military was just a normal job for them. Janus retired and left the court last year. He sent me a jar of jam made by his wife. Me, a man who betrayed Radovid! He just doesn’t care. Scheming to kill me... It seems out of character. For both of them.’

Well, that was to be expected. Roche was, in fact, rather an uncomplicated creature, even for a Dh’oine—willing to burn down villages without a blink of an eye, but also gladly risking his head for the people he drank with. Terribly sentimental. And Janus and Kordian had been his colleagues. They all had served in anti-Scoia’tael special units and worked in Drakenborg.

Which, to be honest, was the reason Iorveth had decided to suggest those names to Vaclav. They both had been rather unpleasant in prison. And Vaclav himself was too terrified to notice where he was leading him.

‘Of course it’s out of character. For most of them.’ Iorveth clapped slowly. ‘I regret having to hurt your ego, but whilst you are infuriating, you’re not important enough to make half of the Redanian higher circles wants to kill you.’

Roche blinked. Then his face closed, all of his features changing into an impenetrable, cold mask.

‘You’re framing them?’

Damien hemmed. ‘I think this is the moment when I should leave. Please forgive me, but I’m the official investigator, it’s my duty to protect the fairness of the trial... And the knight of Her Grace cannot lie in the court.’

‘We are going, too.’ Anarietta gracefully slipped from the table. ‘We are the lady protector of justice in this realm. A case of this severity demands we take upon ourselves the duties of the judge. We wish to know nothing which could compromise us—even if only to our own conscience.’

Roche, Enid and Iorveth exchanged polite, courtly goodbyes and waited until the door behind Her Grace and Damien closed. Then the smile immediately disappeared from Roche’s face.

‘Let me repeat: are you framing them?’

‘ _We_  are framing them,’ corrected Enid, gently. ‘ _Esse creasa_. For the greater good. For Temeria.’

‘Don’t you dare to talk to me about Temeria. Any of you.’

‘Why not? I’ve lived there longer than any Dh’oine.’ Iorveth very much intended to start a fight—because really, how dared Roche sound betrayed?—but Enid interrupted him.

‘Philippa is too powerful and too well-connected in the Nilfgardiaan court to touch. We’re going to forget her name was ever mentioned in the context of your failed— _fortunately_  failed—assassination. We could destroy a few of her advisors and allies, though.’

‘Janus is hardly her ally. He liked the anti-magic edge of Radovid’s rule.’

‘But both Janus and Kordian are influential members of the other coteries. You said it yourself: Janus is an important figure in conservative, royalist circles. Kordian came from a very old family and is a poster boy for anti-Nilfgaardian sentiment. Or, if you prefer, for the independence movement.’ The mask of Enid’s face mellowed into the very picture of solace, calmness, and consolation. ‘Getting rid of Philippa is the ultimate goal, but it’ll be a long game. We don’t want to be too obvious in our intentions, nor do we want to strengthen the enemies of the Empire. If they were to win, they would punish all the traitors of the North, Temeria very much included. Naming Janus and Kordian is both a decoy and a move to weaken Redania as a whole, not only Philippa’s faction, Although hers would be the one hurt the most in the long term. The power vacuum in her inner circle should create... an interesting internal struggle. And Radoslav, secured in a temple, would be a great source of rumours about someone who magically controls innocent Redanian boys, sending them straight to dishonour and the gallows.’

Roche cursed Iorveth, Enid and Aen Seidhe in general to hell and back, in at least five languages and dialects. Impressive. Thaler’s influence, probably. But he wasn’t stupid—and so, after the first fit of rage, he focused solely on the last issue, Janus, Kordian, and all their camaraderie be damned.

‘He tried to  _kill me_  and you’re going to set him free?’

‘He’s easily influenced, and now, thanks to his actions, he has gained and immaculate reputation in all radical Redanian circles. A perfect tool.’

‘Let me repeat: he tried to kill me and wounded one of your pet Squirrels in the process. I know squirrels are less beautiful than ocelots, this one especially, but—‘

‘I regret missing the chance of executing a Dh’oine by my hand, believe me.’ Iorveth drawled every syllable. ‘But Enid sacrificing someone other than me and my friends—I could get used to that. And you should finally get used to not having the luxury of a choice.’

Enid gave him—both of them—a meaningful smile. She smiled in the way that fate and the gods should, whilst announcing their judgment: it was detached, enigmatic, a little sad and very beautiful.  _The future is decided, dear child; accept it or not, it makes no difference._  And while every fibre of Iorveth’s being screamed in anger at this, he knew—whether or not this whole assassination plot had been planned by Enid, or if it truly had been just a fortunate gift from the Fate—his anger, like his sacrifice, had already been numbered, weighed and divided.

 

 

‘Did you plan it all?’

Iorveth and Enid were standing on one of the palace towers’ balconies, soothing their tired eyes with the view of the gardens. Officially.

Enid’s gaze wandered to Iorveth’s injured shoulder, just for a second. Then she looked him straight in the eye.

‘I did not.’

Oh, please. ‘I know you didn’t plan to hurt me.  _This time._  Did you plan to use this idiot to kill Roche and have a nice excuse for undermining Philippa—perhaps even starting a peace intervention in the Redanian province? Did you think that killing the man with the blood of hundreds of Scoia’tael on his hands would buy you forgiveness, even if in only in your own eyes?’

‘I don’t dare to even dream about forgiveness.’ Enid’s voice, for once, sounded flat, no melody in it at all. And she didn’t smile. ‘I did what was necessary. I suffer the consequences. They’re still nothing compared to what our children... you, the Scoia’tael, had been put through. So to answer your question: no, I did not.’

Iorveth knew perfectly well that when Aen Seidhe, especially old ones, answer precisely one part of your question, it would be the height of naivety to assume it also answers the other; but he also knew how enigmatic their elders could be when they wanted. He wouldn’t get anything more from Enid, not about the assassination plot, at least. He focused instead on the other part, letting out a bitter laugh.

‘It’s very convenient, isn’t it? You don’t dare to dream about forgiveness, so you never have to ask for it and risk the humiliation of refusal. You respect our sacrifice so much you don’t dare to sully it with saying “I’m sorry” straight to our faces.’

She blinked. There were unshed tears in her eyes, now, but Iorveth didn’t believe them.

‘I am sorry. I apologise and ask for your forgiveness, but I do not expect it.’ Enid’s hands clenched on the balustrade. ‘I betrayed you. Please forgive me.’

He didn’t answer. She herself had said she didn’t expect a reply.

‘Roche’s waiting for you at the base of the tower, you know?’ she commented after a long moment of silence. ‘Be prepared for a punch in the gut. Or in the face. He hasn’t decided yet.’

Back to being smug, are we?  _Cuach te aep_ —on second thought, Enid would probably love a good shag. She had been selling herself to the Dh’oine for centuries now.

‘Thank you for the head-up, Your Highness.’ Asking how she knew would be useless. She was a sorceress and a daughter of the Aen Saevherne. But he still couldn’t stop himself from mocking her. ‘Was it also prophesised? You read about it in some ancient texts?’

‘Psychology and a good eye was enough. Maybe a little magic. But definitely no metaphysics.’

‘Psychology,’ he intoned sardonically. ‘Let me play this game, too. He wants to hit me because I saved his life and he feels indebted?’

‘This, too. But mostly the opposite.’ He must looked puzzled, because she added. ‘You risked your life for him. He’s concerned. He doesn’t want to be your death. You’re at odds in this matter.’

Iorveth snorted. ‘Speaking in riddles. Your father’s blood is showing.’

‘My father disowned me. I’m of his blood no more, according to our tradition. And our tradition is what you killed for, didn’t you?’

That hit the mark. Not surprising; no matter what she said, she was one of the Aen Seidhe’s elites and, as Iorveth learnt the hardest possible way, their elites always got to have the last word. So he turned on his heel and went to the door.

‘Roche cares about you, in his charming primitive way’.

‘Funny. He said the same about you.’ Iorveth turned at the doorstep; if he managed to close the door quick enough, there would be a chance he wouldn’t hear her answer. ‘Keep working on getting our forgiveness.’ He hoped he sounded nonchalantly. ‘One day, you might even earn it.’

 

 


End file.
